


Rematch

by AllonsyBatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlolly - Freeform, well sort of, written pre-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 20,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllonsyBatch/pseuds/AllonsyBatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the moment Sherlock plunges from the roof of Bart's, the game is on-though some players may be in entirely new positions. (Fic written prior to Season 3, so I suppose you could call it an AU).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

CRASH.

_Assess the damage._

_Laundry truck in proper location. Landed on sheets, bedding-but definitely something harder. Hangers? Broken ribs. Punctured lung? No. Minor bruises and lacerations. Nothing that won’t heal in a few days._

All these thoughts ran through the mind of Sherlock Holmes in the span of approximately fifteen seconds, during which time he had already rolled from the truck, assumed his position on the sidewalk, and offered an infinitesimal nod to familiar-eyed delivery driver in the street. Upon receipt of the nod the delivery driver removed a unit of blood and a racquetball from his packages and proceeded to rip open the blood with his teeth, emptying the contents upon Sherlock’s head and the concrete beneath. The racquetball assumed its position underneath Holmes’ arm, effectively blocking all signs of a radial pulse.

_34 seconds. He’ll be off the ground now. On his way over._

The delivery driver had disappeared into the quickly forming crowd of onlookers as John Watson made his way through.

“He’s my friend!” John fell to the ground. Unable to reach Sherlock’s neck, blocked by the physicians now encircling his best friend, he reached for his wrist. He felt nothing.

_No._

Sherlock’s lifeless body was quickly lifted onto a stretcher and whisked away-John Watson left on the ground, unreachable.

_Please no._


	2. Special Delivery

Molly Hooper was going to be sick.

_Why am I doing this?_

She was doing it because she couldn’t not do it. She would not-could not-ever tell him no. She wrung her hands as she continued to pace back and forth, running through the plan again in her head. Everything was in place. Everything was perfect. Of course it was-he thought of it.

_Where are they?_

The thought had barely formed in her mind before the doors to the morgue crashed open, a stretcher with Sherlock’s battered body leading the way. The paramedics parked him directly in front of Molly, turned on their heels and exited the room with a flourish. Just then, the blood-toting delivery driver came sauntering in, removing his fake mustache and uniform shirt.

“Well, Sherlock-you were a bit late to the position. Took you ten seconds longer than allotted.”

Like a scene out of a horror film, Sherlock, head covered in blood, rose to a sitting position on the stretcher.

“Well, Mycroft,” he spat, “I wasn’t allotting for my ribs to break on the way down.”

“Surely you should have thought of that, dear Brother.”

“Mycroft, would you-“

“Excuse me.” Molly interjected. “Can we, um, do this?”

Sherlock and Mycroft shared a look that clearly said _Later_ as Sherlock deftly hopped off the stretcher, wincing slightly upon hitting the floor.

Molly opened the drawer containing Frank Cyrus, and mentally blocked the lies she told the family about a mix-up with the body, accidental cremation, and the ashes from her own fireplace. When she turned around, she let out a characteristic squeak and quickly covered her mouth with her hands.

Sherlock was standing in nothing but his pants, a pile of clothes at his feet. The shadow of severe bruises had already begun to form on his sides, supporting his self-diagnosis of broken ribs. Mycroft tossed him a bag and he began to extract very non-Sherlock clothing. Loose fitting blue jeans, trainers, and a grey hoodie boasting the name of a local football team.

“Miss Hooper, for what are you waiting?” Mycroft spoke with an air of indifference, as if she had forgotten to offer him a drink.

“ _Doctor_ Hooper. No need to be rude. But he is quite right, Molly. Do hurry up.”

Molly quickly came out of her stupor and began dressing Frank Cyrus’ body in Sherlock’s blood-stained clothes. She had already stayed late last night with a smuggled box of dark hair dye and a curling iron, carefully styling the dead man’s hair to match the curly coif she knew so well. Within minutes and a few more units of blood, the body on the slab was recognizable as the Consulting Detective himself. Meanwhile, an unrecognizable Sherlock completed his look by tucking his hair under a baseball cap.

“Right, then,” Mycroft drawled, “My work is done. Don’t mess this up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft’s riff, looked right into Molly’s eyes. Her legs turned slightly jelly-like. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

She thought she saw the ghost of a smirk on his face before he climbed into an empty drawer, wheeled himself inside, and closed the door.


	3. Through the Doors

As the door to the small chamber closed with a click, Sherlock let out the breath he felt as if he had been holding for hours. He settled onto the cold metal slab and began to replay the previous hours’ events. Everything had gone according to plan, aside from his injuries.

_And Moriarty shooting himself in the head._

He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Prior to stepping out onto the roof of Bart’s, he had played through every scenario in his head, thought through every possible ending to the game-all of those endings included his jumping to his “death” but not a single one included Moriarty ending his own life. Surely Moriarty would have people watching for Sherlock’s fall, but would they have counted for the ring of a gunshot prior to the jump?

Sherlock brought his hands up to his lips, steepling his fingers and closing his eyes. His mind switched to John and the inevitable task of revealing the truth. He had to give it the right amount of time. Mycroft would plan the appropriate events-a funeral, candlelight vigil for his faithful followers. Would he have any more followers? Already he was certain the papers would be picking up on the story of their favorite boffin consulting detective being a fraud. Surely some of the more fanatic lunatics would not be swayed.

Just then, he heard a loud crash above his head, out in the morgue. Someone coming in through the doors. Wildly.

_John._

“Where is he?” he heard John scream, certainly aggressively pushing past Mycroft’s men stationed outside the doors. They had been directed to allow him past, but not direct access to the body.

“John, no!” Molly would approach him just as his eyes locked on the bloody mess upon the slab behind her. Silence as what Sherlock could only imagine as anguish rolled through John’s body. He was surprised by how hard it was to listen to this encounter, even though he could only hear silence. Part of his psyche was screaming for him to clamber from the drawer, announcing his safety.

_He has to believe it._

“John, I’m-I’m so sorry.” Molly sounded as though her throat were blocked. Sherlock imagined tears staining her cheeks as she held John away from the body. She really was quite an impressive actress.

_Was she acting?_

Muffled speech he couldn’t make out started and faded-Molly was leading him out of the room and to a waiting taxi as planned. She would encourage him to get some rest, and begin the process of filing the necessary paperwork to declare the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock sighed silently and allowed himself to enter a semi-conscious state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is already written, so I'll post a chapter or so a night, depending on interest. Hope you enjoy!


	4. Dr. Hooper

Molly rubbed her neck gingerly as she made her way down the hallway, checking inside each door as she progressed. She had just spent the last six hours hunched over a desk attempting to prepare the paperwork that under normal circumstances would have taken her fifteen minutes. However, under normal circumstances, the man it was no secret she was completely head-over-heels for wasn’t dead in the morgue. She knew better, of course, but to the many employees of Bart’s, this tragedy was not one to overlook. She had kept a constant sheen in her eyes to greet every new set of condolences from her friends and co-workers as she attempted to finish her work.

_Couldn’t Mycroft have handled this as well?_

Finally, she reached the end of the hallway, certain that the ground floor was completely devoid of late-night stragglers. As she approached the familiar lab, she couldn’t help but shake off an unusual feeling of emptiness.

_He’s not really dead, you sod._

John had been the worst. She had sat with him for over an hour, saying nothing. As she held his hand, her brain screamed at her to tell him the truth-to put him out of his misery-but she held. John had risen without a word and left without so much as a nod in her direction.

Molly grabbed the latch to Sherlock’s drawer and pulled gently. The door opened to reveal a capped head, which quickly turned to look up at her from an upside-down viewpoint.

“All clear,” she told him, as she rolled out the drawer and helped him to a sitting position.

“Right. Quickly.”

Sherlock rolled out another unoccupied drawer, revealing a large duffel bag and slugged it over his shoulder. As soon as the bag hit his sides, he hissed a sharp intake of breath and let the bag slump to the floor.

“You’re hurt,” said Molly, a statement more than a question. “Let me see-“

“No time-I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

The two quickly prowled out of the back door, Molly leading the way, looking around each corner as they went. There was only a brief moment of panic when they had to pass Neil the night janitor, but their panic was quickly diminished when it was revealed that Neil was quite engrossed in his job of waxing the floors, earbuds railing an insanely loud tune. They reached the unmarked black car-Mycroft’s handiwork, Molly assumed-as Sherlock extracted a set of keys from his ill-fitting blue jeans.

The ride to Molly’s flat was completely silent, excluding Sherlock’s mumbled curses at the state of London traffic at this time of night. They arrived, Molly leading the way again up the stairs and into the flat.

Sherlock threw his bag to the ground, removed the ball cap, and pushed straight past Molly, making a beeline to her laptop upon the dining room table. He immediately started clicking away, staring intently at the screen.

“Make yourself at home then,” Molly murmured, more to herself than to him. “I’m just going to take a shower.”

Sherlock hummed what seemed to be a response, so Molly proceeded to the bathroom.

As she let the warm water cascade over her sore and aching muscles, she had to laugh at the hilarity of the situation. Fake death aside, how many times had she fantasized about THE Sherlock Holmes in her flat? Of course, in her fantasies, he was there by choice, but she still counted it as a small victory. She giggled softly at the thought of him on her couch, watching her television, her cat Toby snaking through his long legs. Her light chuckle soon rioted into hysterical laughter, which caused her to realize just how exhausted she really was. Upon exiting the shower, she was forced to look in her cabinets for her old dressing gown, remembering it would make her a poor hostess to walk to the bedroom naked to retrieve her clothes.

_Like he would even notice._

As she walked into the kitchen to make tea, Sherlock’s face had not seemed to move from the screen, but he addressed her anyway, not bothering to turn around.

“No mention in the papers about Moriarty’s death. His people could be choosing to keep it quiet.”

Attempting to listen to Sherlock and make tea at the same time proved too much for Molly’s clumsy, tired hands, as she lost her grip on the two mugs she was holding, one crashing to the floor.

The sound of the breaking mug caused Sherlock to turn quickly in his seat, issuing a gasp of pain at the sudden movement.

“Sherlock, why don’t you let me look at your ribs now?” She quickly scooped up the pieces of broken mug from off the floor, placing them in the sink, and cleared off a spot on the low-set kitchen island, attempting to create a make-shift examination table.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said as he crossed the room to rifle through his bag for something.

“If they’re broken, you should really be bandaged.”

“Honestly, Molly, I don’t know why you deem it your responsibility to-“

“SHERLOCK. SIT DOWN!” She yelled.

He stopped in his tracks and stared wide-eyed at Molly. Silence.

“You may be a genius, but I’m the one with the medical degree, and I need to be certain you’re not bleeding internally. So get over here, let me look at you, and you can continue being a right git later!”

Molly was astounded at herself. She had no idea where this sudden spunkiness had come from, but it clearly worked, as Sherlock silently crossed the room and sat in front of her on the island.

“Thank you. Now let me see.”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes as he carefully removed the hoodie. The moment his torso was exposed, Molly had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep herself from gasping. Sherlock’s upper abdomen was a violent shade of purple, extending from just below the nipples to his bellybutton.

Molly resigned herself to being professional and took a deep breath before taking Sherlock’s arm and lifting it a bit so she could see the injury properly. She lightly touched her fingers to his fourth rib on the right side and even the slightest touch elicited a painful wince from Sherlock.

“Definitely broken. Just a minute,” she ran to her bathroom cabinet to grab bandages and pain relievers from her first aid kit, and stopped by the freezer on the way back in.

“Not really an apt time for a snack, is it?” Sherlock asked, experimentally flexing his arms above his head, in obvious pain.

“I’m getting ice-you’re swollen, and it should help with the pain.”

She removed three bags of frozen vegetables and filled a glass with water at the sink.

“Take these,” she said as she handed him the pills and water. He took a quick swig of water and popped the pills in his mouth, eyes still rolling at the idea of being the patient.

“Now, take a deep breath-“

“Why? What are you going to-AH!”

Molly pressed all three bags of frozen food to his chest and tried unsuccessfully to hold back a smirk as his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he rested them on Molly’s shoulders, taking quick shallow breaths in reaction to the sudden cold. Molly’s insides fluttered at the feeling of his hands on her shoulders, gripping tightly as she continued to hold pressure on the bags.

“I suppose I deserved that,” he groaned through clenched teeth, closing his eyes tightly.

“You kind of did,” she smiled. She continued to hold the bags as his breathing slowly returned to normal and he relaxed into a less tense position. They maintained this position for another twenty minutes before she broke the silence.

“That should do it. Just bandage you up then,” he raised his hands off her shoulders as she removed the now less-than-frozen vegetables and tossed them back into the freezer, reaching for the roll of bandages. Slowly she coiled the bandages around his chest, giving him support but careful to not make it too tight.

“Better?” She avoided his eyes as she fastened the bandages into place.

He mumbled what seemed to be an affirmation as she began cleaning up the space, but as she made to walk away, he grasped her wrist. Her heart did a little dance in her chest as she looked up to his face.

“Molly, I-thank you.”

“No problem. Just take it easy-you’ll heal in a few days.”

“No. Thank you for-everything.” She looked away quickly and stuttered something that was intended to be “You’re welcome” as she ran to put away the remaining supplies. When she returned, her heart-rate barely back to normal, he was sitting on the couch, having not replaced the hoodie, watching the news on the television.

“Sherlock, would you like to take my bed? I can sleep on the couch.”

“I won’t be sleeping,” he said, not looking away from the screen.

“You need rest. There’s nothing you can do right now.”

He looked up at her derisively. “Doctor’s orders?” the hint of a smirk on the corners of his mouth.

Molly rolled her eyes and turned toward her bedroom. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, Molly Hooper.”

Molly entered her bedroom and folded down the covers, eager to get some sleep. Just before she climbed into bed, she remembered Sherlock’s most likely uncomfortable wardrobe. She walked back out to the living room.

“Sherlock, would you like something to sleep in? I think I have a pair of my brother’s-“ She stopped suddenly when she saw him curled in a ball on the couch, remote still in hand, sound asleep. She removed an afghan from the arm of the sofa and covered his sleeping form. She had never seen his face so…quiet. She took a minute to watch his slow, steady breathing before walking back to her bedroom.

“Sleep tight,” she said quietly before closing her bedroom door.


	5. New Territory

_You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?_

_Yes. So do you._

_Sherlock, your big brother and all the King’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to._

_Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you._

-Sherlock-

_Nah. You talk big. Nah. You’re ordinary. You’re ordinary. You’re on the side of the angels._

-Sherlock-

_Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them._

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to the vision of Molly Hooper hovering directly above him. Confusion was not a feeling Sherlock experienced often, but right now it was at the forefront of his brain, which was slowly picking up speed.

“I think you were having a nightmare. You were thrashing about and talking in your sleep.”

As his vision crept back to normal, Sherlock remembered the events of the previous day, and visibly relaxed as he sat up on the couch, taking a deep breath, which caused him to wince at the pain it caused in his torso.

“How are you feeling?” asked Molly, her eyes trying their hardest to not linger on his bare chest as she looked to the bandages covering his bruises.

_Are we still doing that, then? The embarrassment?_

Sherlock sighed and internally rolled his eyes as he stood and began removing the bandages. The bruises had remained a violent purple, but his range of motion seemed have improved slightly.

“A shade better, I think.”

“Well, let’s wrap you back up. And you need to rest today-no pacing around the flat,” said Molly as she gently replaced the bandages.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock had just realized that Molly was dressed. “Where are you going?”

“Work, of course.”

“Oh, I-“ Sherlock looked up, studying her.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just thought you would have taken some time off. In light of your recent tragedy.”

“Oh. Well, I-“ Molly stammered. “It’s just, Mycroft said he would be dropping some things off today, so-“

Sherlock rolled his eyes, this time for the world to see. “Enough said. My brother may be the British government but his back up will always be ‘annoying insect’ in my eyes.”

Molly smirked as she went to pick up her handbag and keys. “Well, then. Take it easy. Should be back around-“

“You may want to take some painkillers with you, as I suspect your headache will continue throughout the day.” She stopped and stared at him as he went to pick up her laptop from the kitchen table and began haphazardly searching through news sites. After a beat, she raised her eyebrow and smiled with derision.

“Please. You guessed that. There is absolutely no way you could have-“

“Molly, from the approximate fifty-six minutes I spent in this flat last night before falling asleep and the four minutes I have been awake this morning, I can see that your brother is angry with you, and you miss him desperately, you haven’t had a man in your apartment in over four months, you are on your menstrual period, and lastly, you have a headache.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open slightly. She shook her head slightly and looked off to the side.

“Was anything wrong?” Sherlock asked, the corners of his mouth turned up mischievously.

“Yes,” she said, crossing her arms and looking back at him, looking slightly miffed.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly, waiting for her reply.

“I’m mad at him. My brother.”

Sherlock smiled and turned back to the computer.

“How did you know?”

“Do you really want to do this? Every time I deduce in front of you it just makes you angry.”

“Only when what you have to say is mean.”

“It’s never mean. It’s the truth.” Molly slumped in her stature and gave him the most sarcastic, ‘are-you-serious’ look.

“Ok, fine. Sometimes I should keep it to myself. But this time, you asked. There are pictures all around you flat of you with seemingly every person you’ve ever known but the pictures with you brothers are clearly from the late nineties- judging by your fashion and frankly alarming ponytail height-indicating that you have not seen them in sometime. Due to the fact that there are more recent photos of you with your eldest brother, I can deduce that your problem is with the younger of the two. ‘But how do you know they’re my brothers, Sherlock?’ Aside from the obvious genetic markers the way you have your arms around each other in the photo suggests love but not of the romantic sort, not to mention the highly unlikely thought of you keeping photos of yourself with ex-lovers. You have multiple saved messages on your answer phone, all from a foreign number, no doubt you brother abroad, and you can’t bring yourself to erase them because you enjoy hearing his voice. Usually this would indicate him being mad at you, but upon further thought, you being the immensely sentimental person you are, it’s not hard to imagine it going the other way.

“You haven’t had a man over in at least four months judging by the hoover marks on your carpet in the dining room. It’s an area you don’t frequent, so the only time it gets attention is when you clean for guests. The bill lying on the floor in one of the aforementioned corners is dated four months ago, hence the date. True, your last visitor could have been female, but judging by your long hours in a socially unnerving profession you probably have few female friends, and the close one or two you have wouldn’t have been ones for which you would have tidied up.

“The exercise machine in the corner of the living area has no dust, showing frequent use, indicating that you care about your weight. Yet, when you opened your freezer to get the ice packs last night I noticed a container of extremely fattening ice cream, bent in at the sides indicating that you ate directly from the carton. I suppose it could have been stress eating, but prior to two days ago you had nothing to be overly stressed about and from the frost build-up on the side of the container I see that it has been at least two days since you’ve eaten it-so, PMS it is then.”

Molly seemed to be trying her absolute best to not be flabbergasted. “And the headache?”

“You have dark circles under your eyes. You –understandably-did not sleep well. And when you looked at the telly this morning you pinched your brow together-a common reaction to a tension headache coupled with bright light.”

She stood, staring at him silently. “You-“

“You asked.”

She sighed and allowed herself a small smile.

“You’re right, I did.”

“I’m always right,” he said, finally going back to the screen.

Molly crossed the room, leaned down, and gave him a brief peck on the top of his head. As she walked out the door, she seemed surprised at her sudden confidence.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she said, chuckling lightly, “you never cease to amaze me.”

As the door closed behind her, Sherlock sat thinking, slightly derailed by Molly’s outward show of affection.

_That was…not unpleasant._


	6. Baby Steps

Molly’s feet were throbbing and her cheeks hurt from all the fake smiling she had done today. It seemed like she couldn’t get through a single paragraph of the paperwork she was working on without someone else dropping in to express their “sincerest condolences” or handing her some sort of mystery casseroles so she “wouldn’t have to worry about dinner.” It was with about six of the said casseroles that she now made her way up the stairs to her flat, the rest having conveniently found their way to a nondescript bin outside the mortuary.

As she approached her door she remembered this morning and her rather brave move to give Sherlock a kiss before leaving.

_That was new._

She wasn’t really sure where all this confidence originated, but she felt empowered and was defiant towards her mousy usual self, determined to keep the new her going.

Before she placed her key in the lock, she mentally prepared herself for what she was going to find behind the door. She assumed that leaving Sherlock at home alone would be somewhat similar to that of a pack of rabid wolves tearing through her flat-books and papers everywhere, broken dishes, and the like. What met her instead was completely unsuspected.

Silence. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Everything was in the exact same location as it had been when she had left this morning, with the exception of the telly remote and an opened package of biscuits on the kitchen counter.

“Sherlock? Where are you?”

“Right here,” said a voice from behind her, causing her to jump nearly a foot in the air. He was wearing the same outfit as the one he escaped the mortuary in-hoodie, jeans, trainers.

“What the hell are you doing outside the flat?!” she squeaked, pushing him inside and looking over her shoulder as she slammed the door. “Someone could have seen you!”

“I can’t understand why no one has reported on the death of Moriarty. Not a whisper of it in the news, at Scotland Yard, or at Bart’s. Seems as if the blood and body have been removed rather professionally, and the door to the roof isn’t even closed off.”

“You went…to…” she couldn’t fathom the idea of the dead man waltzing through the streets of London, making his ridiculous deductions and inciting panic when spotted.

“Please, Molly. I obviously disguised myself.” He pulled a tan bucket hat out of his hoodie pocket and Molly instantly recognized it as the one she wore on fishing trips with her father when she was young.

“Where did you get that?”

“Your closet of course.”

Closing her eyes and shaking off the idea of Sherlock rummaging through her things, she resolved to continue her confident streak.

“Listen here, Mr. Consulting Detective-if you are going to carelessly go gallivanting around town with no respect for what I’m going through to keep what happened a secret, then you can go stay with your bloody brother!”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, seemingly at a loss for words. Knowing this had to be impossible, Molly realized he was carefully choosing his words, which greatly surprised her, considering his past consideration of tact. He started to speak twice, but stopped. Finally, he seemed to make a decision.

“I’m sorry.”

_Hold the phone. What did he just say?_

“But I had to see it myself. I think Moriarty’s men are trying to keep his death a secret and it kills me that I don’t know why. I assure you, I wasn’t seen. I greatly appreciate what you’re doing and will continue to appreciate every moment you don’t send me to stay in my own personal version of hell known as Mycroft’s home.”

Molly was shocked. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize before. Aside from Christmas last year.”

“Again, I find myself not wanting to upset you.”

Sherlock took a single step towards Molly, making the distance between them very slight. His brow was crinkled in a way that made him look as though he were trying to solve a particularly difficult crossword.

“What are you doing?” said Molly, raising one eyebrow suspiciously as he closed the gap between them.

“Experiment.” Sherlock reached up and gently brushed a strand of Molly’s hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. Molly felt her heart speed up and begin pounding in her chest at the contact, and she did everything in her power to not release the involuntary squeak that was rising in her throat.

As he removed his hand, he allowed his fingers to delicately brush the skin on her cheek, and his facial expression lightened to one of subtle amusement.

It was at that moment Molly dropped the six casseroles she had completely forgotten she was holding.

_Smooth, Hooper. Really got this confidence thing down._

“Oops, sorry!” She immediately broke eye-contact with him and dropped to the floor to salvage what she could of the mess.

Sherlock smirked as he leaned over to help her.

“What is…all of this, exactly?”

“Well, I think that’s some sort of chicken,” she said, pointing to a reddish-brown patch, “and I think that’s tuna. Or maybe turkey?”

“Let me rephrase. What is the purpose of all this?” He rose to his feet, broken glass in-hand and walked to the bin.

“Oh, you know. When a loved-one d-“she caught her words and quickly changed them, but they did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, “when a friend dies, you cook food for the people who are mourning. It’s a social convention. I know you’re not familiar with those.”

Sherlock nodded, having to agree. He was just about to make a vindictive comment about the uselessness of social convention when he heard Molly shout behind him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, genuinely concerned by her fright.

“Nothing-just cut myself on a piece of the glass. Clumsy.” She held one hand cradled in the other, trying to keep a fair amount of blood from dripping into the already-ruined food.

Sherlock reached her in two strides, reaching for her injured hand and gently wrapping it in his. She was shocked by his apparent concern, as he examined the deep gash on her palm.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but I won’t be able to tell for sure until you wash off the beef au gratin.”

She smiled as he led her to the sink, still holding her hand in his. Together, they washed the sticky attempt at dinner off her hands and cleaned the cut, deciding silently that he was indeed correct-it wouldn’t need stitches.

“Back in a tic. First aid kit?”

“Bathroom. Under the sink.”

He returned in a moment, peroxide and bandages in hand.

“Sherlock, really, I can handle this-it’s just a cut.”

“Now, now. I wouldn’t dream of missing out on the opportunity of playing doctor with you.”

Molly’s head snapped up, her eyes meeting his at the exact moment he realized the implications of what he had said. What she saw in his face surprised her to the point of laughing.

_Sherlock Holmes was embarrassed._

“I just mean, you tended to me so-delicately-last night with your frozen vegetables-it would go amiss for me to not return the favor.”

Molly chuckled lightly as he focused on wrapping her hand in a bandage, trying to hide his blush unsuccessfully.

“There-all squared away.” He stood up straight, inspecting his work, but was very careful to not make eye contact.

“Why thank you, Dr. Holmes. If this consulting detective thing doesn’t work out, I believe you would do fine as a consultant for minor boo-boos and ouchies.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and disposed of the bloodied bandages in the bin.

“Well, I’d better be off to bed. Early day tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow’s Saturday. You don’t work on Saturdays. What sort of droll activity does Mycroft have you tending to now?”

“Your funeral. It’s tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

Molly looked at the floor, uncertain what to say next. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him appearing to experience the same conflict. She knew which part of the idea of his own funeral bothered him the most.

“He’ll be fine, Sherlock. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

He looked at her with an obvious question in his eyes.

“Please, it doesn’t take a genius to deduce how you feel about John right now. He’s going to hurt for a while. And when he finds out you’re alive. He’ll be fine again. He may punch you. But then he’ll be fine.”

Sherlock smiled and looked back down at the floor. Molly thought she could feel that confidant girl coming back.

_Oh, what the hell._

She stood up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips lightly to Sherlock’s. He made no move to reciprocate, but he also made no attempt whatsoever to stop the action. She counted that as a victory.

_Baby steps._

She broke the kiss, coming back down flat on her feet, relishing the look of complete shock on Sherlock’s face before she turned and walked back to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood completely still for thirty whole seconds before releasing the breath he was holding. His hand free of bandages slowly came up to his lips, feeling the remnants of his first kiss. A smile worked its way out.

“Goodnight, Molly,” he whispered to the empty room.


	7. A New Game

In his thirty-five years of existence, Sherlock had never before been so baffled. Sure, he had been perplexed by cases before, but those were cases-and he always worked those out. But this time is what something entirely new. Something he had never experienced before.

_Molly Hooper kissed me._

_And I…liked it._

It was absolutely preposterous to think that he had any sort of feelings for Molly Hooper. He had long-ago relegated sentiment as useless and vowed to never let pointless emotions stand in the way of knowledge and the pursuit of logic.

But he couldn’t explain away the feeling he had when she kissed him. Usually, Sherlock Holmes’ mind was constantly abuzz with thousands of ideas, grinding away like the cogs of an enormous machine. Even when he slept he thought, often solving cases and deciphering codes via dreaming, as he had done with the case of the traveler killed by his own boomerang. But last night when Molly Hooper pressed her lips against his-he thought of nothing. Everything seemed to stop. His mind was blank. His absolute only thought was the feeling of her lips-their heat and softness-and how much he enjoyed the feeling. The emptiness of his mind continued after she broke away, the first thoughts returning being to realize how hard his heart was beating in his chest and how shallow his breathing had become.

Not since adolescence had Sherlock allowed himself to think of a female in a sexual way-due to the fact that during adolescence was when he had his revelations having to do with sentiment. Throughout his teenaged and adult years he had ignored the jabs of society-and in the most part, his elder brother-dealing with his sexuality, and decided that relationships were simply of no use to him.

During his thoughts he had subconsciously become aware of stirrings coming from Molly’s bedroom, and shortly thereafter the shower turning on. Looking out the window he saw the first few lights of dawn coming through.

He decided that he simply did not have enough data to come to a valid conclusion on the matter. These…

_Ugh-emotions_

-he had experienced could have been a fluke. Perhaps brought on by his heightened state of stress from the previous days’ events. There was only one solution to an experiment that did not yield enough data-he would need another trial.

“Sherlock, have you seen my mobile?” Molly entered the living room dressed in a pink dressing gown and actively drying her hair with a towel. “I don’t remember seeing it last ni-have you been up all night?”

Not moving from his perch on the couch, Sherlock closed his eyes. “Is it morning?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes opened. “Then yes.”

“Is something the matter?”

Sherlock saw out of the corner of his eye Molly run through several emotions. First was, of course, general concern for his insomnia, but second-a kind of triumph. Sherlock assumed she was rather proud of herself for giving him a reason to stay up and think all night.

“Just thinking,” he decided not to let her take all the credit. “About Moriarty.”

“Sherlock, he’s dead. You don’t have to worry about him anymore. There’s no way you can fake shooting yourself in the head.”

“There’s also no way you can jump off a ten-story building and live, is there?”

They shared a concerned look, and Molly walked back to her bedroom to prepare for Sherlock’s funeral. When she came back out, she wore a modest black dress, casual makeup and just the slightest touch of red lipstick.

_The same as Christmas. STOP IT, SHERLOCK._

“Well, I’m off. Thought I’d pop by the market on the way back, anything you want?”

Sherlock hummed a response that she took to be a no. She grabbed her purse and left.

It wasn’t five minutes later that Sherlock’s mobile phone pinged a text alert. Slightly shocked that it still worked after falling off the roof of Bart’s with him, he went to retrieve it from his bag.

_Guess Molly’s found her phone._

Sure enough, his phone read “New Message: Molly Hooper.”

_Probably giving me a play-by-play of my own funeral._

He smiled inwardly of the idea of Molly trying to cheer him up and pushed the button. He almost dropped the phone.

On the display was a photo of what could only be the roof of Bart’s. On the ground, precisely where the body of Jim Moriarty had been only two days before was a hand-written sign that read “GOTCHA” in large, swoopy letters. The message attached to the photo read,

_“Can little Sherlock come out to play?-M”_


	8. An Invitation

The service was short and simple. There were very few people-Molly, Mycroft with his wife and twin girls, a severe looking woman with high cheekbones who could only be Sherlock’s mother, Lestrade and-to her complete and utter shock-Anderson and Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, a veiled woman whom she had a sneaking suspicion was Irene Adler, and John. After the service, the attendants slowly dispersed, Mycroft leading the weeping Mrs. Holmes away last, leaving only Molly and John, one on either side of the casket.

Molly had a brief, frightening thought as to whether or not the body of some other person was inside. Mycroft had insured a closed casket, citing the damage to the body as being too great for his mother to handle. Molly hoped the casket was empty.

John was standing near the head of the casket, staring at the arrangement of flowers sent by Sherlock’s many believers. Molly crossed slowly to his side of the grave and wordlessly slipped her hand into his. They stood for several minutes, neither saying a word. It was John who broke the silence.

“This doesn’t feel real, does it?”

“No,” Molly felt like her heart was being squeezed inside her chest.

“Tell me you still believe in him. I need to know-“ His voice cracked a little as he looked to the sky to stop his tears from falling, “I need to know that he was real.”

“He was real, John. I know he was. And for as ridiculous a man as he was, he cared about you. He cared about you so much.” They embraced each other then, both allowing themselves to cry freely.

“I’m sorry he was so awful to you,” said John, extracting himself from her hug and quickly wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his coat. “I think he really did care about you-somewhere in that strange brain of his.”

Molly smiled. “I know he does. Did,” she shuddered, but she thought that John accepted her incorrect tense as grief.

“I still wake up thinking I hear his violin. Think I’m going crazy.”

“I miss him too, John.”

XXX

Her face still felt puffy from crying as she climbed the stairs, wishing for nothing more than to take a hot shower and watch some junk telly with Sherlock before going to bed. She needed something to take the image of the heart-broken John out of her mind.

When she opened the door, she had the immediate fear that the room was on fire. Her flat looked as though a small cyclone had touched down and thrown all her possessions to different sides of whatever room they had originally occupied. Smoke filled the room, and as she searched for the source, Sherlock rushed into the room, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and stuffed what appeared to be one of her shirts into an overnight bag.

“Sherlock, what the hell is going on?”

Her words seemed to startle him, and he looked up into her face. His expression was terrifying. His hair was disheveled, his face pale and strained. She rushed over to him and plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and put it out in an abandoned glass of water on the counter. She turned and put her hands on each side of his face, forcing him to look at her. “Sherlock-what’s wrong? What happened?”

He swallowed, keeping his eyes wide and on her. “He’s alive. Moriarty’s alive. And I think he may be coming after you.”

Her blood ran cold. She felt as if all the air had suddenly left her lungs as she let her hands drop from either side of his face.

“He’s dead. You watched him die.”

“I don’t know how, but he’s alive. Now you have to go,” he said as he thrust the overnight bag into her arms. “I got you a ticket to Switzerland- you’re going to stay there for a few days while I figure this out.”

She seemed to snap out of her haze at the mention of another country. “Wait, what? I’m not leaving you here.”

“Yes, you are. Until I figure this out, I can’t guarantee your safety. Mycroft will have someone escort you to the train station and then to-“

Molly slapped him, hard. He blinked several times before looking back up at her.

“What was that for?”

“You need to calm down. Now, tell me exactly what happened. We can figure this out. Together.”

“Oh, please, Molly, as if you could really help me figure out a case.”

“Don’t make me hit you again. I’m helping you whether you like it or not. Now, what happened?”

Sherlock walked across the room and picked up his mobile phone. He opened the text and held it up to Molly’s face.

“But that says it’s from me. How did he get-“

“You said you didn’t remember bringing it home. He must have picked it up somewhere. Or sent one of his people to do it for him. That doesn’t matter. What matters is what came next.”

He pushed a button and held another text up to her.

_Bart’s Roof-midnight. Don’t worry, honey, Molly doesn’t need to know.-M_

“He knows you’re here. He knows you’re alive. How?”

“Don’t you think if I knew that I’d tell you?!”

“You’re not actually thinking about going?”

“Of course I’m going! This is the man who had trained snipers posted on rooftops with assault rifles posed on everyone I ever cared about. I can’t ignore it! He could actually pull the trigger this time. John, Mrs. Hudson, you-“

“Me? He doesn’t care about me. He had every chance to hurt me when we were dating, you know that.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. “Molly, don’t you see? He knows that it was you who helped me. He named you in the message. He knows that I-“

“That you what? Sherlock?” She honestly had no clue what he was going on about. Jim Moriarty had been alone with her several times and never once had he made any attempt to do anything so much as look at her awkwardly.

“He knows that I care about you.”

Molly stared at him, unable to move.

_Wait. What?_

How long had she waited to hear him say that? He had told her a few nights ago that she counted, but she never for a moment believed that he actually cared about her. Maybe had- _feelings_ -for her?

“Sherlock, I-“

“Yes. Yes, I care about you. Happy?”

“It’s not like I entered a contest, Sherlock.”

He sat on the couch and buried his face in his hands. She blinked away the tear that was threatening to fall down her cheek and went to sit beside him. “What do we do now?”

“You don’t do anything,” he said, not looking up from the floor, “You’re getting out of here and I’m going to Bart’s to see what he wants.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Like hell you are.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

He looked up at her, and ran his hand through his hair. Molly resolved herself into Confidant Molly once again, although inside she thought she may fall apart any moment. They locked eyes again. Then, in an instant, his lips were on hers.

His hands held the sides of her face as hers reached up and twisted into his curly hair. This wasn’t like the kiss from last night. This time he was kissing her, and she was kissing back. It felt desperate, almost as if he had been waiting to do it-or as if he might never get to do it again. All too soon, he was pulling away, a slightly dazed look on his face.

“You’re not going.”

“Nice try.” Then, in a completely non-Sherlock fashion, he pulled her head down to plant a soft kiss on her forehead and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. She reached her hands under his arms to rest on his shoulder blades, her head to his chest.

“I’m scared, Sherlock.”

“Me too, Molly. Me, too.”


	9. This Little Game of Ours

Sherlock Holmes was used to having a thousand thoughts occupying his mind. When he visited his mind palace, it was theoretically possible for him to remember anything delegated to memory from childhood through the present. Never before had any infinitesimal fraction of his thoughts been devoted to the idea of emotions-especially such emotions as love and attraction. Yet, here he was, a homicidal maniac summoning him to a midnight meeting, and the largest part of his brain was thinking about Molly Hooper. Their first kiss. _His first kiss_. The subsequent, more exploratory second kiss-this time initiated by himself-which was more of a ploy to convince Molly not to do what they were about to do.

“You don’t need to come. He knows where I am-if he wanted me dead he would have killed me already,” Sherlock called into the other room where Molly was changing her clothes.

“You’re not going alone,” said Molly as she walked into the living area, re-dressed in black pants and a grey jumper, hair pulled into a tight ponytail. “Do I look like I’m ready to meet a maniac?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rummaged in his bag, pulling out his Browning and concealing it in the waistband of his jeans.

“We’ve really got to get you some new clothes,” Molly said as she critically eyed the very un-Sherlock football hoodie he’d been wearing for two days.

“Excuse me for not regarding the latest fashion when I could be walking to my own death.”

“Stop being melodramatic-you said yourself, if he wanted you dead it would have happened already. Now buck up and let’s go.”

Sherlock had to stifle a smile as he watched this confident Molly stride out the door with purpose.

_This could be a crime scene. We can’t giggle._

XXX

The walk to Bart’s was silent and quick, with Molly jumping at every street corner, convinced that someone was going to see and recognize Sherlock.

Using her key they entered the hospital through the mortuary-knowing it would be empty at this time of night-and made their way up the stairs to the rooftop entrance.

The night was quiet. Sherlock couldn’t even hear the London traffic below as he stepped out onto the roof.

“Nice night isn’t it? Just the kind of night you really appreciate the fact that you’re not dead.” The voice was pure honey mixed with acid-a sound Sherlock was happy never hearing again-rising to his ears as he rounded the corner and Jim Moriarty came into view, sitting on the roof ledge overlooking the street with which Sherlock had become too-well acquainted.

“I was just thinking-it would be a shame if I couldn’t enjoy myself on a night like this-being dead and all,” Moriarty hissed, still not turning to look at Sherlock, “Wouldn’t you agree Sher-“ Moriarty turned then, taking in the sight of Sherlock and Molly.

“Well-this is…unexpected. Sherlock, you brought a guest! Hallo, Molly Dear, long time, no see!” He wiggled his fingers at her and shrugged his shoulders, smiling a toothy smile.

“Go to hell, Jim.” Molly spat.

“Oooooo, what a mouth. But then, I remember what that mouth can do.” He replied smugly.

Molly looked away, sickened.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, determined to not let Moriarty have his way with the meeting.

“First things, first,” said Moriarty, spinning and pulling a gun out of nowhere, pointed at the two before him.

Sherlock’s reaction surprised everybody on the roof. He immediately grabbed hold of Molly’s wrist, pulling her directly behind him, constituting a human shield.

“Put your gun on the ground, and don’t try anything silly, Pookie,” Moriarty said, unflinching, “and don’t pretend you don’t have one. I recognize that bulge,” he smiled.

Sherlock removed his Browning from his waistband, never taking his eyes off Moriarty. He placed the gun on the ground and kicked it away. As he came up, he again held Molly’s wrist, keeping her firmly behind him. He felt her pulse quicken, though whether it was due to his touch or the situation he wasn’t certain.

“Well, well, well…Mr. Holmes-do I need to come up with a new nickname for you? And good golly Miss Molly, how long have you waited for this little fantasy to play out, eh? You’ve gotta tell me-they say the bigger the brain, the bigger the-“

“What do you want, Moriarty?” Sherlock cut him off shrewdly.

“Tsk, tsk, naughty boy. Why do you always assume I want something? I just wanted to see your pretty face-and for you to see mine.”

“And what now? You call your dogs back on me, Mrs. Hudson, John?”

“Nah. That’s been done. Boring. I’m just gonna go about my way and enjoy being dead for a little while. But I’m not done with you Sherly, you can be sure of that.”

A loud bang issued from the staircase on the other side of the building as the door was slammed shut, causing Sherlock and Molly to jump in surprise and look to the sound. When they turned back, Moriarty had gone.

“Where did he go? Did he jump?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “Please, Molly,” he said as he pointed to a makeshift bridge set up with wooden planks between Bart’s and the adjacent building, leading directly to another open door-presumably stairs to the ground floor.

Molly let out a sigh of relief. “Do you really think he’ll leave you alone?”

“For now.”

XXX

The walk back to Molly’s flat was much slower and less deliberate, as the only people out at this hour were drunks and those with a place to be-both very unlikely to pay Sherlock and Molly little mind as they strolled along.

“Why do you think he called you there?”

Sherlock kept his gaze on the ground, hands in his pockets, thinking quietly to himself before responding. “He just wanted me to know he was alive. And the other way around.”

“So he knew you weren’t dead?”

“Obviously.”

Molly shivered as a cool breeze floated through the night air.

_She’s cold. What is it men do when a woman is cold?_

Sherlock unzipped his borrowed hoodie and slumped it off his shoulders and onto Molly’s, revealing a plain navy t-shirt beneath. It occurred to Molly that she had never seen Sherlock’s bare arms before, with the exception of the skin he exposed to slap several nicotine patches at once. He replaced his hands in his pockets, leaving Molly with a look of utter amazement.

“…Th-Thank you.”

They walked in silence for several more minutes, Sherlock thinking and looking at the ground, Molly trying not to sputter all her questions at once. She settled on one.

“Do you know how he did it?”

Sherlock hummed in question, having been pulled from his mind palace, it would seem.

“I mean, he didn’t shoot himself. So what did he do?”

“No, Molly, he definitely shot himself.”

Molly looked at him, puzzled.

For what seemed like the millionth time that night, Sherlock sighed. However, this time, a gentle smile fell across his face. Molly quite thought it was an improvement.

“He still had traces of powder burns across his hand, and a small burn on his lower lip-clearly an injury resulting from firing a gun loaded with a blank directly into his face. He must have had a theatrical blood packet rigged to explode via trigger. I was distraught-it’s no wonder I didn’t notice at the time.”

Molly nodded, though it was clear she hadn’t completely accepted his theory.

“Can I ask one more question, now that we’re supposedly out of danger?”

“I suppose it couldn’t cause any more damage other than repetitious banter.”

“Why did you kiss me?”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, eyes growing wide for an instant before returning to normal. He seemed to be searching for the correct answer, but finding himself unable to find it.

“I was trying to convince you to stay home.”

“No-I’ve been kissed before. This was different. Tell me the truth. And remember, you’re the one who taught me how to tell if someone is lying,” she stepped in front of him, forcing his eye contact, though he tried his best to continue studying the pavement.

_I knew I shouldn’t have told her that._

He flashed back to the day in the mortuary when he told her all about the body language of liars, and how with three distinct steps you could instantly know if someone was telling the truth.

“I-“ he started, somewhat embarrassed.

“The Great Sherlock Holmes-at a loss for words-I should really write this on my calendar,” Molly said jokingly, smiling and crossing her arms in front of him. “Oh, just say it!”

“I wanted to.”

Her smile faltered a little as she comprehended what he had said. Apparently, she was expecting a different excuse-something along the lines of experimentation or boredom.

“When you kissed me last night it was…something I’ve never experienced before and…I find…that I can think of little else than doing it again.”

This time Molly’s smile faded completely.

“Sherlock-you have, well…before?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, confused. “What?”

“You have kissed someone before, right?”

“Oh. Well,” he looked down again, suddenly interested in his trainers, “Not in the conventional sense…” his words trailed off so the last few could not be heard.

“Pardon?” Molly asked, the smile slowly reforming on her lips.

“No. That was the first time I’ve ever, well…Right. So now you know.” He looked back up, rubbing some life back into his cold arms.

Molly couldn’t believe her eyes or ears. Sherlock Holmes was blushing. He was blushing because he was thinking about his first kiss. With _her_.

“And…what did you think about your first…experience?” she said, nearly chuckling. She felt that starting-to-become-familiar confidence sneaking its way back to the forefront of her mind.

“It was…interesting.” He said, putting his hands back into his pockets.

“Interesting. Coming from anyone else, I’d be insulted. But from you…” she let the sentence go unfinished. “So, with every good experiment, a scientist should conduct multiple trials.”

Sherlock looked up, surprise in his eyes. This was not going as he had expected. He had tried to repel Molly for years, and he was certain she would be infuriated at his newfound…emotions.

She stepped closer to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He was very unsure about what to do with his hands until he finally decided to let them rest on her hips.

“Trial 3?” She said, looking into his eyes.

He smiled a genuine smile before leaning down and pressing his lips to hers, this time with no motive other than pure pleasure.


	10. Helping Hands

_OHMYGOSHOHMYGOSHOHMYGOSH…_

Molly’s head was swirling with about a thousand thoughts at once, at the forefront being _SHERLOCK HOLMES IS SNOGGING ME. WELL!_ She had replayed this scenario hundreds of times in hundreds of different ways, but none of her fantasies could have ever done it justice. Even with his lack of experience, he was a fabulous kisser-exploring her mouth gently with his tongue and holding her tightly by her hips until his hands subconsciously moved around to her lower back, pulling her closer to him. Strangely enough, her next thought was how John would have a complete coronary episode if he saw them right now, and she let a small giggle escape her lips.

Sherlock pulled back, a dazed look in his eyes but a smile on his face. “What?” he questioned, not sure whether or not to be insulted.

“Nothing. I just-can’t believe this is happening,” said Molly, an involuntary chill running through her body having absolutely nothing to do with the temperature.

“You’re cold,” said Sherlock, taking his arms and rubbing them quickly up and down hers, trying to warm her. “Let’s get home and warm you up.”

Molly smirked and laughed inwardly at his choice of words and began to walk alongside him toward her flat. Their hands brushed together and she took it upon herself to grab hold of his.

“Molly-I’m not your boyfriend,” he said. Molly’s smile faltered a little as she let go of his hand, but refused to let this slight setback take away from a few moments before.

“I’m not your boyfriend,” he said again.

“Yes, Sherlock I-“ This time he grabbed her hand, entwining his fingers with hers and giving it a soft squeeze.

“-heard you.”

Molly couldn’t stop smiling the entire way back to her flat.

XXX

“Do you want some tea before you go to bed?” she asked as she walked out of her bedroom, dressed in her favorite pajama bottoms and t-shirt. Sherlock was sitting on the couch with his eyes closed again, his familiar thinking position assumed. His hair was still damp from a shower and he wore a pair of her brother’s old sweatpants and t-shirts she happened to have in a drawer. Lucky for him his brother was tall, but nowhere near as muscular as Sherlock, so the shirt was a bit too small. Molly wasn’t complaining.

“What does he want?”

Molly stopped making tea, taken aback by Sherlock’s question. In the span of an hour, she had nearly forgotten their encounter with the lunatic Moriarty and everything he had said. How the hell did I forget about that? Guess you had something else on your mind. She grinned to herself and turned back to Sherlock, noting the anguish his face seemed to be tied in.

“Sherlock, this is what he wants.” Sherlock opened his eyes, slightly puffy now from lack of sleep. He looked at her questioningly.

“He wants you to pour yourself into this. Think about it every waking second-he wants you to go mad.”

He sighed but didn’t relax. “I have to figure it out.” She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed, causing him to shut his eyes and sigh again. She felt a huge knot of muscle near his neck and decided to forgo any more Confident Molly tonight. “You will figure it out. But not without rest. Come here.”

She made to turn him away from her and reached for the bottom hem of his too-small t-shirt.

“Molly, what are you doing?” he asked, obeying her and turning around, lifting his arms up to guide the shirt off.

“Just trust me,” she grinned, rolling her eyes and cracking her knuckles. He tried to face her but she turned him back around, marveling in his muscular back before setting to work on his shoulders.

“Molly, what are you-OH. Oh, god-“ The rest of his sentence became incoherent as Molly began her massage.

She dug her thumbs hard into one of the knots near his neck and worked it out, moving to another and another. Sherlock continued to moan soft sounds of pleasure, and Molly couldn’t help but chuckle softly at what the neighbors must think hearing him make these noises.

“That is-the most amazing thing-I’ve ever felt in my life,” he said between each knot, slowly sinking down to lie on his stomach on the couch. Molly laughed heartily this time, repositioning herself to sit on his backside, giving her full access to the planes of his back. When she had finished working out all the knots in his neck and shoulders, she moved lower down his back, exploring every facet of his smooth skin. His moans got softer and his breathing more regular. As she lifted herself off of him as gently as she could, she checked his face and sure enough, he was sound asleep-his face appearing more peaceful than she had ever seen it. Smiling beside herself, she picked up the blanket from the night before and covered him up once again before proceeding to her own bedroom.

Just as she was drifting off to sleep in her own bed, she heard movement from the other room. Looking up sleepily, she saw the dark outline of Sherlock standing in the doorway.

She sat up quickly and turned on the lamp by her bedside. “What is it? Is everything ok?”

He walked over to her bedside table and turned the lamp out again.

“I’m not your boyfriend.”

She looked up at him-unsure this time. “I know that.”

“Ok,” He pulled back the covers and climbed into bed behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close, her back against his bare chest, his head buried in her hair.

“Sherlock-“

“Goodnight,Molly.”

She sighed, flopped back down on her pillow, and fell almost instantly asleep.


	11. CCTV

Molly awoke the next morning to the unusual sight of sunlight creeping through her bedroom window. She rarely slept so late, even when she did have a day off. The events of the previous evening rushing back to the forefront of her mind, she quickly rolled over, only to find an empty space next to her.

_Was it all a dream?_

She quickly banished that idea as she rolled over and smelled the distinct scent of Sherlock on the pillow, though it was quickly being overcome by another scent in the air.

_Is that…smoke?_

Quickly putting two and two together, Molly sighed and pulled herself off the bed and into her dressing gown, padding her way out to the kitchen. She stood silently at the doorway, wanting to provide her eyes the necessary evidence to the situation that couldn’t possibly be taking place in front of her. Sherlock was standing in front of the stove, still bare-chested and wearing the borrowed sweats, attempting to put bacon into a pan without splashing himself with hot oil. Molly took an extra moment to appreciate how the pants sat-just so-upon his hips before he _tossed_ a piece of bacon and hopped out of the direct line of fire. He turned quickly at the sound of her laugh.

“What in god’s name are you doing?” she giggled, looking to the mess he had made about the countertops.

“Well, I was…trying…I…” he humphed. “Breakfast,” he finally decided.

She laughed once more before striding to the stove, turning down the fire, and standing up on tiptoe to give him a brief peck on the lips. His response was to flush a deep red and look to the floor.

“Cooking isn’t really my area.”

“Go sit. I’ll take over.” He smiled, and to Molly’s surprise, before walking away he swiftly grabbed her hips, spinning her to face him and kissed her deeply, clearly not satisfied with her peck from before. Still somewhat dazed, she managed to regain her balance. “Bacon’s burning.”

“Right, well…right.” Molly quite enjoyed this flustered, ‘not my area’ Sherlock.

XXX

Sherlock went to sit at the table, head still spinning slightly from his daring move. He quite liked kissing-the feeling of his mind being completely blank, aside from thoughts of Molly-but he knew it wasn’t fair to her to continue these ministrations without the prospect of something more. Molly would want hearts and flowers-something he simply could not put forth. He would have to figure something out.

Breakfast was a particularly uneventful affair, with Sherlock eating multiple helpings of Molly’s cooking while explaining the banalities of crap telly and how he could always deduce whether or not the man was the child’s father. He was halfway through his explanation of how Doctor Who was a metaphor for the downfall of humanity when the doorbell rang.

Molly and Sherlock looked at each other, both with a “who-on-earth-could-that-be?” look on their faces. Sherlock checked the clock above the stove: 7:45. _Too early for condolences._ He retrieved his Browning from its discarded position on the floor and assumed a secret-agent-like position against the wall by the door. He motioned for Molly to take cover behind him. He looked through the peephole, and withdrew with a sigh, lowering his pistol and opening the door in a disgruntled fashion.

“Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here so early?” Mycroft strode into the room uninvited and threw a full duffel bag to the floor. Fresh clothes, thought Sherlock. He leaned against his umbrella and looked Sherlock up and down.

“Nice to see you too, little brother. And not a moment too soon, it seems, judging by your fashion choices.”

Sherlock looked down to his bare chest and sweat pants somewhat embarrassed before snatching the bag off the floor and rifling through it. He extracted a plain white undershirt and pulled it on before examining the remainder of the contents. His brow furrowed in confusion as he pulled out a box of hair dye.

In response, Mycroft extracted a small pile of photographs from his coat pocket and thrust them in Sherlock’s direction. “Next time you decide to go for a nighttime stroll, I thought perhaps you would like to be a bit more selective about your disguises.”

The pictures were several stills from the street last night that Molly and Sherlock had walked upon on the way home from meeting Moriarty. Mycroft had seemed to save the best for last-a photo of the two of them caught in what appeared to be quite a passionate kiss. Sherlock felt himself go red as he pushed the photos back into Mycroft’s hands.

“I suppose I should be thankful that you own the CCTV networks.”

“You should be thankful I have someone keeping an eye on you.”

Sherlock searched Mycroft’s face, trying to deduce whether or not he knew about Moriarty.

_Sagging eyes-hasn’t slept. Shirt not pressed-still rowing with his wife. White dog hairs on his trousers-Damn-he’s been to see Mummy._

“Stop it, Sherlock-you know I can’t stand when you do that.”

“How’s Mummy?” Sherlock spat, clearly not caring but wishing to rub in his unwanted deductions.

“Her youngest son just committed suicide, how do you think?” Mycroft turned to leave, but stopped once more at the door. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish with him, Sherlock-but do recognize when you’re out of your depth, won’t you? Good morning, Sherlock, Miss Hooper.” He closed the door without waiting for a response.

“Well. He’s…pleasant,” Molly said sarcastically.

“He’s right, though,” said Sherlock.

“What, about being out of your depth with Moriarty?”

“No. About needing a disguise,” he held up the bottle of hair dye, shaking it playfully. “Fancy a game of dress-up?”


	12. Of Being Ginger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite note to glance at the rating, folks. ;)

Molly was exercising every bit of self-control she had to not break into hysterical laughter. The famous Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for Scotland Yard, was sitting on her toilet with a towel around his shoulders, hair covered in ginger hair dye, reading the directions on the back of the box. Out of spite for Mycroft he had removed the white t-shirt as soon as he left and kept the sweat pants on as well. The entire day up to the hair dye experience this evening had been spent with Molly cleaning up the flat while Sherlock sporadically moved about tending to this-or-that, much like a hyperactive house cat.

“It says here we were supposed to do a test patch-did you do that?” He looked up at Molly, concerned.

“Would you relax,” she said, letting a giggle escape, “I’ve done this loads of times. Come on, let’s go rinse you off,” she took his hand and led him to the kitchen, directing him to the sink. He leaned his head into the basin as she readied the sprayer to rinse the dye away. After a thorough rinse and lather with shampoo, he stood before her, now with a messy, damp mop of bright ginger hair atop his head.

“How do I look?” he said, clearly nervous for the response.

Molly could not hold her giggles any longer. They escaped out of her as she doubled over, struggling to breath, grasping the edge of the counter as she laughed. Sherlock worryingly looked at his reflection in the stainless steel toaster and groaned.

“Oh, come on. Is it that bad?”

Molly continued her hysterics, now laughing at Sherlock staring heatedly at her toaster, running his fingers through the red mess. He looked down at her with a look of contempt.

“It’s not funny,” he said, looking down at her gasping for air.

“You look like a-“ she couldn’t get a full sentence out between her bursts of laughter.

“Like a what?” he asked, concerned. She gestured for him to bend down so she could whisper in his ear. He obliged, and Molly had to stifle her laughter for a brief moment to prevent herself from spitting into his face.

“You look like a-WEASLEY.” At this she lost it again, doubling over on the floor in a heap, unable to remain standing.

Sherlock stood back up, staring at her, when suddenly a chuckle escaped his own lips. Molly looked up just long enough to see him start to laugh in earnest, and within seconds he was near hysterics with her. She had never seen him laugh before, let alone red-faced and gasping for air like a child.

“Stop it, I’m gonna wet my pants!” She screamed, watching him lean to the floor to pick her up, unable to control his own laughter.

“Oh, yeah? Let me help you along!” He grabbed the sprayer from the sink and turned on the cold water, drenching her and causing her to scream as she scrambled to stand up and escape. Before she could get out of range, he reached out and held her by the waist, dropping the sprayer and tickling her in the ribs.

Molly’s laughter doubled at the tickling and she desperately reached out, coming up with the sprayer and managing to strike him in the face with a well-placed stream of water before dropping it and running out of the kitchen towards her bedroom, still laughing. Before she could make it to the door, she felt herself being turned around and picked up in a fireman’s carry over Sherlock’s shoulder, both still giggling like kids on Christmas as he made his way to her bedroom.

Sherlock made a noise that sounded like Molly was much heavier than her one hundred twenty pounds as he hefted her onto the bed, but she locked her arms around his neck as she fell, pulling him on top of her. Their laughter settled quickly as reached a hand out to brush a stray lock of hair out of her face, still flushed from laughing.

“You really do look ridiculous,” she said, still smiling despite the suddenly intimate situation.

“Yeah, well, at least I’m not wearing a jumper with a cat on it,” he jabbed in jest.

“At least my cheekbones fit inside my face!” she said, the ghost of a laugh still on her face.

“At least I don’t smell like dead people!”

“Sociopath!”

“Nerd!”

“Freak!”

Rather than answer her final playful insult, he replied by kissing her fully, putting his hand behind her head to pull her deeper into his mouth. Her hands flew up to tangle into his curls, their color all-but-forgotten as she lost herself in him. His free hand rested on her hip, toying precariously at the hem of her jumper before moving up slightly to come in contact with the bare skin of her stomach. Molly felt her skin ignite at his touch, and immediately mustered all her courage to fling herself forward, tossing him on his back, now straddling him. His eyes widened at the sudden burst of courage, but his look of surprise melted into one of amusement as he reached to pull her back to his lips.

This time he bravely brought his hands up with her jumper, helping her to pull it off over her head. He gasped at the skin-to-skin contact as she came back down to kiss him before fumbling with the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Molly, I-“ he stammered as she pulled the sweats away from his legs, leaving him only in his pants upon the bed, a tell-tale bulge beginning to stretch the elasticity of the boxer briefs.

“I know-you’re not my boyfriend,” she said as she crawled back up his body, planting a trail of soft kisses up his chest as she resumed her position near his face.

“No. That’s not it. I just- I’ve never-“ She stopped his sentence by placing two fingers over his mouth.

“Shh. I know. Just relax and…try to turn your brain off.” Sherlock sighed and pulled her into another kiss, resolving himself to do just that. He flipped her over so he once again was resting his weight on his elbows, hovering over her, and began to let his body take complete control over his usually out-paced mind.

His mouth strayed from her lips and fell down into the crevice between her neck and shoulders, eliciting wonderful gasps from Molly. His hands worked their way across the flat of her stomach, barely glancing over the material of her bra, almost asking permission before her own hand came down on his, encouraging his exploratory touch. He pulled the material down, exposing her breast before bringing his head down to her chest and giving it a gentle kiss. He pulled her up slightly to allow himself access to the clasp at her back which he somehow deftly removed without so much as a struggle. Molly didn’t think she could handle much more of this.

_I’m in bed with Sherlock. Bloody. Holmes._

As he came back up to continue his ministrations upon her neck and shoulder, Molly decided to take matters into her own hands-literally. She unwound her hands from his now ginger hair and ran them down his sculpted chest, barely hesitating before continuing into the waistband of his pants, wrapping one hand around him firmly.

Sherlock immediately stopped what he was doing with a sharp hiss of breath and looked into her eyes. She brought her free hand up to his face and stroked his cheek once before letting her other hand begin working up and down, causing Sherlock to close his eyes and let out a ragged breath before coming back down to kiss her again, this time with more need. Before she really knew what had happened he removed himself from her grip, stood up, and swiftly pulled her pajama bottoms and knickers off in one carefully orchestrated movement. She was now lying before him, completely nude-but in all her sexual encounters before, she never remembered feeling _less_ self-conscious or nervous. Sherlock lithely stepped out of his pants and positioned himself over her once more.

“You certainly look like you’ve done this before,” said Molly, her arms wrapping around his neck, fingers once again twirling his hair.

_I could get used to the ginger._

“I’ve walked in on John watching a lot of romantic comedies on his laptop,” he smirked, his fingers brushing the side of her cheeks. She laughed again before silently nodding to him and joining their lips again. In one gentle, but confident motion he entered her, both of them breaking the kiss long enough to gasp, before he began to rock his hips and develop a rhythm. Molly’s head swam with sensations, both physical and emotional, as she felt herself swinging her own hips to meet his. Within minutes, she felt a familiar knotting sensation in her lower stomach, though she was shocked as it had never actually happened during intercourse before. Not wanting to question it, she allowed herself to completely unravel, panting Sherlock’s name in the process. This vocalization apparently was his undoing as well, as he almost immediately responded with her name, before collapsing against her chest, his head at her shoulder.

They stayed in this position for several minutes, catching their breath, allowing their heart rates to return to normal before Sherlock rolled to one side, pulling her over to rest against his chest. Molly saw large black spots before her eyes, and smiled as she succumbed to a pleasant dizzy sensation. Sherlock brought his hand up to run it through his hair before chuckling softly.

Molly looked up into his face, smiling despite her curiosity. “What?”

He continued to laugh softly before pulling her head to his lips to kiss the top of her head. “If I would have known this was going to happen, I would have become a ginger a long time ago.”

She laughed with him only once more, before settling against his chest and falling into a deep, contented sleep.


	13. Move Over Darlin'

_This is ridiculous-how does Mummy ever expect me to climb the political ladder if I’m always having to take care of that little ingrate?_

_Eighteen year old Mycroft Holmes approached the Headmaster’s office of the primary school, now too-familiar. His face stuck in a hard line, he was prepared to give Sherlock a piece of his mind-misbehaving on a day like today-how dare he-_

_His harsh posture fell at the sight of the small boy through the office window. Sherlock, eleven-years-old, feet not touching the ground from his perch on the office bench, was holding a rag to his face, the evidence of a bloodied nose lingering upon the tissue. Mycroft sighed and entered the office._

_“Hello, Mycroft,” said the secretary warmly, “so sorry to call your mother, but he was bleeding this time.”_

_Mycroft nodded to the secretary in answer, and knelt to the ground in front of the curly-headed boy who was trying so very hard not to look upset._

_“Well, Sherlock, what did you say this time?”_

_“Where’s Mummy?” he asked, the trace of a sob still hanging on his voice._

_“You know perfectly well she’s hosting the Duke’s garden party today. You get me instead,” his irritation began to rise again at the thought of being pulled from another days work, but just as he prepared himself to be angry Sherlock, the young boy looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes._

_“I didn’t even do anything. They started it. They keep calling me ‘freak.’”_

_“I see. And how did you end it?”_

_Sherlock glanced to the side. “I told Harris his parents were splitting up.”_

_Mycroft sighed and looked down at the floor before resolving himself to be patient with his little brother._

_“Sherlock, I’ve told you-and Mummy’s told you-you can’t just say things-“_

_“But it’s true! Yesterday when his Mum picked him up she wasn’t wearing her-“_

_“I know. It’s just-sometimes it’s better not to bring these things up.”_

_Sherlock shoved the rag back into his nose, fighting more tears._

_“Now,” Mycroft said, pulling Sherlock’s hands away from his face, “let’s get you home and cleaned up.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror. “You didn’t tell Father, did you?”_

_“No, Sherlock. I didn’t tell Father.” Sherlock visibly relaxed and hopped off the chair to exit the office._

_As the two brothers left the building, Mycroft gave Sherlock a playful shove, eliciting a rare smile from the younger Holmes._

Mycroft blinked into his tumbler, suddenly aware of his lack of brandy. He had been sitting by the fire for nearly an hour, thinking and worrying about Sherlock. He pulled a long chain from his waistcoat pocket and drew out a watch, checking the time. He was just rising from his seat when Anthea strode through the open gallery door.

“Your ride is here, Mr. Holmes. Shall I have tea waiting when you return?”

“No, thank you. It will certainly be a late night. You do know how much Her Majesty likes to speak.”

Mycroft limbered through the doorway to the street outside and directly into a dark sedan with blacked-out windows. “How’s the hip, Stefan?” he said, gathering a newspaper from the seat and not bothering to look up at his driver.

“Much better now that you’re here, darlin.’”

Mycroft’s head snapped up to the unfamiliar voice. Through the reflection of the rear-view mirror, he found himself eye-to-eye with Jim Moriarty. With a skid of tires, the car pulled away.


	14. Say Something

Sherlock felt his eyes open reluctantly to the bright light of Molly’s bedroom-sunlight streaming through the open windows. It took a few seconds for his sleep-washed brain to comprehend his current position: he was naked-and Molly Hooper appeared to be as well-and the two of them were intertwined like a mass of spaghetti-legs, arms, and torsos wrapped around each other.

Sherlock experimentally stretched his free arm above his head, surprised at the stiffness, trying hard to not wake the still-sleeping Molly whose head had made a dent in his chest. Sherlock rarely slept, and even more rarely did he enter a deep sleep, resulting in the kind of “hit-by-truck” feeling he was currently experiencing.

Remembering the events of the previous evening, Sherlock smiled as he watched Molly’s eyes dart back and forth beneath her eyelids. She would be awake soon. Deciding to help her along, Sherlock bent his head down to his chest and delivered a soft kiss to the top of her head. As she moved to look up at his face, he had to stifle a laugh at her extreme bedhead and the large red mark on her cheek left over from sleeping against his chest.

“Good morning, “ she croaked groggily, as she began to move and stretch. “What time is it?”

Sherlock rolled over slightly to look at the clock, and came back to his position chuckling lightly.

“What?” she asked, working the life back into her arm that had been under Sherlock’s head.

“It’s six o’clock,” he replied, watching her face for a reaction.

Molly huffed and slumped back down onto Sherlock’s chest.

“Oh-let’s go back to sleep then-it’s too early for a day off.”

Sherlock grinned slyly as he turned the clock/radio to a position she could see. It read 18:06. Molly jumped up at the sight of it, looking quite comical with her hair going in every direction.

“We slept all day?!” Sherlock made no attempt to move himself, quite enjoying the view of a naked Molly scratching her head in disbelief.

“I suppose the experiments of last night were rather…exhausting,” he said seriously, the hint of a smirk turning up the ends of his lips.

Molly visibly relaxed then, grinning herself, and returning down to the bed to give Sherlock a long, slow kiss on the mouth.

“And what did the Consulting Detective think of said experiments?”

Sherlock had just begun to pull her in to tell her exactly what he had thought of their experiments when he was interrupted by the familiar buzz of his mobile. He rolled his eyes and flopped his head back onto the pillow.

“Leave it to Mycroft to disengage any moment with any semblance whatsoever to my happiness.” He flipped the phone open and ensured the number, then answered bitingly. “What is it, Mycroft?”

“Brother, dear-I require your presence at the Milford factory near Hounslow. Just putting the finishing touches on your return plan.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, irritated with his brother’s horrific timing. “Fine. When?” he spat.

“Now would be ideal,” Mycroft said with a slight edge to his voice.

“You know, Mycroft, I think even you would have to appreciate the comedy in what you have just interrupted.”

“Have to go now, Sherlock. See you soon. Love you.”

The phone clicked and Sherlock stared at it in disbelief, his eyes widening.

“What did he want?” asked Molly, her voice giving away her slight desire to throttle Mycroft herself.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but instead bounded out of bed and began dressing in a fury.

“Sherlock, what is it?” Molly said, concerned, yet confused.

“Something’s not right. I think Mycroft has been compromised.”

“What-what did he say? Did he tell you something was wrong?”

Sherlock stopped for a moment, realization setting in as to the only person who could possibly be behind this.

“Yes. He definitely said something wrong.”


	15. Game Over

Molly stared in disbelief as Sherlock became dressed in a matter of seconds-she still lying on the bed completely unclothed. It took him bounding off for the living room before her brain finally kicked into gear and she began getting ready herself.

She was just pulling on her sturdy boots when he reentered the room for the belt still lying upon the floor.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, a warning in his eyes.

“We’ve been through this, Sherlock; you’re not meeting him alone.”

Sherlock looked at her with a slightly amused expression, surprised that she had worked out where he was going by his demeanor alone. He took her by the shoulders and led her to the edge of the bed, sitting down.

“Molly, I know you want to help-and, trust me, I don’t want to go into this alone. But if Moriarty thinks I’ve done something suspicious, like get the police involved or told someone what’s going on-he’ll kill Mycroft. I’m sure of it.”

Molly allowed herself a nervous smile. “You have to understand it’s a little strange to see you worrying about your brother. It’s almost…human.”

He too allowed a brief smile before placing his hands on either side of her face and kissing her in earnest.

“Ok, what do you want me to do, then?” she asked, slightly dazed by the kiss.

“Go to Mycroft’s flat-the code to enter the door is 1895-barge in like you own the place and don’t stop until you find Anthea. You’ll know her when you see her. Tell her I sent you and that I’m having a danger night. Then stand back.”

Molly was more than a little confused. “But, wh-“

“Just trust me. Gotta go. Laters.” With a wink, he flew out the door, leaving Molly still sitting on the edge of the bed, terrified.

XXX

The factory was old, out of the way, and more than a little decrepit.

_The perfect place for the final problem._

As Sherlock entered through the main doors he saw what was unmistakably bread crumbs lining the floor, creating a path through the rusted machinery. The path led him to an open-area room. Off to the side was something concealed under a series of velvet curtains, surrounded on one side by complete darkness. Sitting directly in the center of the room, on a wooden chair, was Mycroft. A single construction lamp provided the only light. Sherlock cautiously strode into the open area, carefully keeping a good distance between himself and his brother.

“Ok, Brother Dear?” asked Sherlock, raising his eyebrows.

Mycroft’s mouth made a hard line as his eyes bored into Sherlock’s, desperate to tell him what he hoped he already knew.

Sherlock turned and yelled into the air. “Olly-olly oxen free! Come out, come out-wherever you are!”

From behind an enormous steam press walked Jim Moriarty, Westwood suit finely pressed and looking alive as ever.

“Aww, Sherlock, you ruined my big surprise. I was supposed to have a big dramatic reveal-there was going to be confetti. Do you like what I’ve done with the place? I wanted something more grandiose, but…I suppose this will have to do. What do you think, Big Bro?” With that, he shoved Mycroft hard, sending him and the chair crashing to the floor. When he made no attempt to catch himself, Sherlock saw that his hands were bound behind him to the chair.

“I knew I should never have let him be in charge of getting you here. He always ruins everything, doesn’t he?” Moriarty went from cool and collected to kicking Mycroft violently in the chest.

“BIG-BROTHERS-RUIN-EVERYTHING!” he screamed, accentuating every word with a well-placed kick.

“MORIARTY!” yelled Sherlock, desperate to stop the onslaught befalling his unable-to-defend-himself brother. While he no doubt liked seeing Mycroft in distress, this was much too far.

“I believe your beef is with me, so why don’t you leave the government’s lapdog out of it?” he said, keeping his voice calm despite his irritation and fear. “What do you want?”

Moriarty stopped at once, straightening his tie and walking away from the panting Mycroft on the floor. “I told you a long time ago what I wanted, Sherlock. I want to burn you. Burn the heart right out of you.”

“And I informed you that I had been informed by a credible source-though that credible source is currently probably nursing some broken ribs-that I don’t have one.”

“Oh, but you do Sherlock. You wear your heart on your sleeve. But unlike most men, your sleeve is only worth what people think.”

“Do stop speaking in metaphors and get to the point,” Sherlock attempted to disarm his monologue.

“The only thing you care about is your mind. And what people think of it. Hence my original need to discredit you. And it worked! I had you killed and it worked. Everyone’s favorite boffin detective-a fraud. But then, your STUPID buddy had to go and ruin it.”

Sherlock was genuinely confused at this point, which did not happen often. “What ARE you on about?”

Moriarty quickly produced a newspaper from his inside pocket and threw it to the floor near Sherlock’s feet. The front page featured a candid photo of John Watson outside 221B Baker Street, with a headline reading, “DOCTOR CLEARS DETECTIVE’S NAME. MORIARTY REAL.”

Sherlock suppressed a smile right before a jolt of guilt at seeing John for the first time since his “death.”

“So, what? You brought me here to finish the job? Kill me yourself? You knew where I was staying, you hardly needed to bring me here to do it.”

“Oh, no, Sherlock” Moriarty oozed, “I’m not going to kill you. You’re right, that would have been easy. I told you-I’m going to burn the heart right out of you.”

With these words, Moriarty had sidled up to the sheets and yanked them off what appeared to be a television camera with a chair situated directly in front of it.

“We’re going to put on a little show. You’re going to tell the world how you faked everything. Your cases, your death, your ‘redemption.’ And you’re going to do it all on live television.”

“Why? Why are you doing this? You have what you need to continue your work. What’s your motive?”

Moriarty hunched his shoulders and smiled flirtatiously at Sherlock. “Haven’t you seen ‘Psycho?’ Motives aren’t necessary when you’re as mad as I am.”

“And what if I refuse?”

“I would have thought that would have been obvious,” he said, looking at Mycroft lying upon the floor, blood trickling from his nose.

“Don’t do anything, Sherlock, he’s bluffing-look at his eyebrows,” Mycroft choked.

“He’s right, you know,” said Sherlock, beginning to pace around the camera, “you would never kill him-you know it wouldn’t upset me that much-we haven’t got on in years. Also, not to mention the only weapon you’re carrying right now is a copy of my Browning in your back waistband, probably for sentimental purposes, but you could have used that ages ago meaning you either have no intention of killing him or myself or you have someone trained upon us from above. Knowing you and your art for theatrics I doubt you’d play the same cards twice, after all, you played the sniper game in the pool, you definitely wouldn’t do it again. No bombs this time because you won’t risk getting yourself blown up. Which begs the question, ‘where is the muscle?’ which isn’t hard to answer considering the footprints in the dust behind the machine from whence you emerged. So as long as we’re being straight with each other, why don’t you have the big gun come on out to play?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying and failing at hiding a slight smirk.

Moriarty stuck out his bottom lip and nodded. “You’re right, Sherlock. You’re just so clever. How could I ever expect to beat you?” His mock upset, turned into a grin. “Go ahead and bring out the ‘big gun!’”

From behind the machine walked a terrified and shaking Molly, followed closely by a revolver pointed at the back of her head, held by a man in black.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock-they were at Mycroft’s-“

Sherlock’s expression had changed the moment he saw Molly walk from behind the machine. His eyes widened as he looked to the floor, running through the options in his head.

“Told you I was soooooo changeable,” said Moriarty with a flourish toward the camera. “Better get going, Sherlock-your adoring public awaits!”

“But...you-“ Sherlock’s mind was racing.

“Do it, Seb,” Moriarty’s face became rage incarnate, nodding toward the man in black.

The man took the butt of the revolver and slammed it into Molly’s jaw, knocking her to the floor, dazed, but still conscious.

“NO!” yelled Sherlock. He started toward her, fire in his eyes, but he was stopped by Moriarty.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he said, wagging a finger in Sherlock’s face, “you know what to do. Have a seat, and I’ll provide you a script.”

Sherlock walked slowly to the wooden chair and sat down, never taking his eyes off Molly, who was beginning to stand again, clutching her rapidly swelling mandible. The man in black walked her over so they were nearer to Sherlock, Mycroft still lying on the floor directly behind them.

“Don’t you dare hurt her again,” Sherlock growled at Moriarty.

“Then do as I say, Peach.”

Moriarty reached beneath the camera and extracted a series of cue cards. “Now, Sherlock, feel free to add any artistic flair you’d like-but don’t deviate from the story at hand. Ready? Lights, camera, ACTION!”

A red light illuminated the top of the camera, and Sherlock saw his own face shine from a small monitor directly below. There was no doubt that at this very moment his face and words would be broadcast across the United Kingdom, or even farther depending on how angry Moriarty was at the time of his planning. He sat in silence until Moriarty shook the cue card and Sherlock heard a slight whimper from behind him meaning the gun had probably resumed its place behind Molly’s head.

“My name is…Sherlock Holmes…and I’m,” Sherlock swallowed, “not dead.”

Moriarty smiled and dropped the first cue card, revealing another.

“I faked my own death to gain sympathy,” another card dropped, “from my lunatic followers and to gain support,” another card, “for the cases that I made up in the first place.”

Moriarty was smiling maliciously at this point, suppressing laughter at every card he turned over.

“John Watson is a liar. He’s just another fanatic trying to,” Sherlock stumbled but continued, fearing for Molly, “get into my pants. Don’t believe what he’s said. He’s not my friend. I invented Moriarty and hired the actor Rich Brook to play him. I am a fraud.”

At this point Moriarty gave him the thumbs up signaling his completion, but Sherlock continued.

“I was tired of living in my brother’s shadow. He’s always been more successful than me,” Moriarty sat down the cue cards and continued listening, clearly amused by Sherlock’s choice to continue.

“It all started when my I was six and my brother was a Boy Scout. At the time I thought it was mundane and trivial, but I am suddenly very glad for those merit badges in knot tying and self-defense.”

There was a crash from behind as Mycroft, completely untied, slammed the chair over the head of the man in black, rendering him unconscious. He grabbed the dropped revolver from the floor and tended to Molly, who was on the verge of unconsciousness herself.

“Although he also had one in basket weaving, so he shouldn’t get too much credit.”

“Sherlock, watch what you say,” Moriarty mouthed, being sure to not be heard in the camera’s microphone.

“By now you’ve realized that I’m being comical. Because there’s one thing the real Moriarty didn’t think of when he was planning this little ‘production,’”

Moriarty had retrieved the pistol out of his waistband and was attaching the clip when he hesitated, curious as to Sherlock’s words. He looked at him questioningly.

“John Watson? Must really want to get into my pants.”

Moriarty’s look of confusion lasted only a second before a sickening crack saw him crumbling to the floor. Where he was standing now stood John Watson, a bloodied wrench held in his fist.

“That’s all, folks,” said John as he hit the button on the camera, ending the transmission.

“John, you really do have impeccable timing. I thought-“ Sherlock’s words were stopped by John’s fist meeting his face. While it was hard enough to give him an awful shiner, he came back up smiling.

“I suppose I deserved that.”

“You really did.”

“How did you know?”

“Molly told me at the funeral.”

Everyone in the room turned to look at Molly, who was a slightly alarming shade of green. Her eyes darted between John, Sherlock, and Mycroft respectively, as she shook her head violently.

“No! No, I didn’t say anything!” she squeaked, her head beginning to pound.

“Well, she didn’t say anything per se, but you taught me those lie detector things, and I figured it out. I happened to notice her running for Mycroft’s on my way home and decided to follow her. Saw that guy grab her, figured there was trouble, meaning you HAD to still be around, and I followed.”

“Brilliant,” said Sherlock, smiling at John.

“Well, there’s a change,” John said back, before giving Sherlock an awkward hug, ending with both men sniffing heavily and looking at the floor.

The four moved to the center of the room, Sherlock cupping Molly’s face, much to the surprise of Mycroft and John.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his fingers gently brushing the bruise forming on her jaw.

She smiled as much as she could, considering it hurt to turn up her lips. “Yes, I’ll be fine. I’m just glad it’s over.” Sherlock smiled and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, trying not to hurt her. John looked at Mycroft, clearly confused.

“I suppose someone watching that will have called the police by now,” added Mycroft, attempting to straighten his suit and assessing the damage of the blood stains upon his shirt. “Nice work, little brother. I see you understood my message.”

“Of course, I just-“

They were interrupted by the sound of shuffling as Moriarty struggled to his feet, holding the pistol out in front of him.

“You-won’t-win.”

The gun fired, followed immediately by Mycroft’s which caught him directly between the eyes. He fell to the floor, no longer moving.

Silence filled the room as nobody moved, until a soft thump sounded. John, Molly, and Mycroft quickly turned around as Sherlock fell to his knees, a bright red blossom appearing on the front of his shirt.


	16. Don't You Dare

Sherlock looked directly in front of him and saw the images of Molly, Mycroft, and John swimming before him, eyes all wide, before he put his hand down upon his abdomen and pulled it away, covered in blood. A dark circle closed in on his vision as he began to fall the rest of the way to the ground. He closed his eyes and went down, surprised to not feel concrete connect with the back of his head. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because at that exact moment he was met with the most mind-numbing pain he had ever experienced in his life.

He forced his eyes open to see Mycroft’s face directly above his. It was apparently his hands that had stopped him from hitting the floor. John was tearing open his shirt, revealing a perfect circle directly to the side of his bellybutton, oozing blood at an alarming rate.

“Good thing the camera’s off, wouldn’t want the world to see you tearing my shirt off,” Sherlock gasped, his words garbled by his pain and his sudden inability to breathe.

“Well, remember, it’s your pants I’m after apparently” said John, holding his hand over the wound. “Molly, I could use some help here.”

Molly still stood rooted to her spot, staring wide-eyed at the scene before her.

“Mycroft, put your jacket under his head, and keep him talking,” John had taken off his own jacket and held it to Sherlock’s abdomen in an attempt to stanch the bleeding. “MOLLY, GET OVER HERE!”

Molly yanked herself back to sanity as she rushed to Sherlock’s side, grasping his hand as Mycroft lifted his head to place his jacket beneath.

“Always have to be the center of attention, don’t you Brother Dear,” said Mycroft, his voice shaking uncontrollably.

“I gave you your credit on national television, what more do you want?” Sherlock sputtered, his eyelids beginning to flicker.

“No, NO, NO! Don’t you dare! I am NOT telling Mummy you died AGAIN! Now stay awake!”

“Molly, I think the bullet went up through his lung. It’s collapsed.”

Molly stared at John, eyes still wide, but understanding. She turned to Mycroft. “Give me a pen.”

Mycroft looked back and forth between Molly and John, “What are you going to do?”

“JUST GIVE ME A PEN, MYCROFT!” Molly yelled, her medical brain finally kicking into gear. Mycroft scrambled in the pocket of the jacket beneath Sherlock’s head and produced a metal fountain pen, handing it to Molly cautiously.

“Do you want me to do it?” asked John, pressing harder upon the wound, which was still bleeding profusely.

“No, I can do it,” she said strongly, with a hint of a quaver in her voice, “Mycroft, distract him.”

“What do I say?”

“He’s your brother, DISTRACT HIM.”

Mycroft bent down to Sherlock’s face, which was getting paler by the second, a glistening of sweat now prominent on his brow.

“Remember that time I brought home Helen McDunnogh when I was sixteen? And you told everyone in the family that she had slept with ten different members of the football team? I never really thanked you for that, you know.”

“You locked me in the linen cupboard for three hours,” said Sherlock, his voice weak.

“Yes, well, I’m thankful now. She was atrocious.”

Molly disassembled the top of the pen and held it directly above Sherlock’s chest, nodding to Mycroft, who paled himself as he realized what she was about to do.

“Sherlock, tell me what you see.”

“I-can’t,” his eyes began to close.

“SHERLOCK, NOW!”

“You’re off your diet, you gained-“

Molly plunged the pen hard into Sherlock’s chest, causing him to buck off the ground and gasp in pain. As his body lowered back to the ground a hiss of air accompanied his taking a deep breath and seeming to relax a little.

“I suppose I deserved that,”

“A little,” said Molly, smiling weakly at the sentences getting so much use these weeks. She moved herself to take over Mycroft’s position directly in front of Sherlock’s face, grasping his hand and squeezing.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so awful to you,” Sherlock squeaked, his eyes rolling around, unable to focus. It wasn’t completely obvious to which person Sherlock was speaking.

“No. No way. Don’t you dare start saying goodbyes,” John spoke up, “I had to lose you once, and I am not going to do that again. So don’t you dare.”

Sherlock felt his muscles go slack as the pain seemed to ebb away. The last thing he saw before his vision went entirely to black was John’s face, a single tear working its way down his cheek.


	17. Initially, He Wanted To Be A Pirate

_“Arrrr! Avast, maties! Pwesent awms!” Three-year-old Sherlock jumped from the garden wall directly into a mud puddle, followed closely by Mycroft, wielding a wooden sword._

_“You’ll never escape from me, Captain Sherlock!”_

_The brothers came together with their swords, ending with Sherlock hefting his beneath Mycroft’s arm._

_“Uggggg! You got me, you smarmy sea-dog!” Mycroft fell to the ground dramatically._

_BEEP._

_“That’s wight. You’ll never catch me!”_

_BEEP._

_“Mycwoft? Aw you dead yet? Mycwoft?” Sherlock approached him lying on the ground cautiously before Mycroft leapt up and tackled Sherlock, holding him to the ground and tickling him furiously._

_BEEP._

_“Mycwoft, what’s that noise?” said Sherlock, still giggling underneath his brother, black curls flying everywhere._

_BEEP._

_“That’s your heart rate monitor, Sherlock.”_

_Sherlock stared at him, confused._

_“You’re in hospital-you got shot-remember?”_

_Sherlock stood up and backed away from him, wooden sword still in hand._

_“Why am I hewe?”_

_Ten-year-old Mycroft stood and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You’re dreaming. This is a metaphor for how we’ve fought all these years, but now you forgive me.”_

_BEEP._

_“It’s time to wake up now, Sherlock.”_

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Sherlock’s eyes crept open slowly, unable to take the harshness of the fluorescent lighting above. Everything hurt. His entire body felt stiff and unmovable, like he had just been hit by a truck. Once he was able to see properly, he scanned the area.

John was perched in a chair next to his bed, watching the telly on mute. Molly was asleep on the small loveseat near the window, wrapped in a standard, hospital-issue blanket, her hair in tangles around her face. He lay propped up on pillows in bed, a plethora of wires and tubing seeming to issue from every area of his body, including one that seemed to be in a rather personal position. He tried to sit up farther, but was met with an immediate dizzy sensation, accompanied by very threatening nausea.

John turned at the sound of movement and immediately hopped up, placing a hand on Sherlock’s chest and forcing him back down onto the pillows.

“Not so fast, you need to stay lying down,” he reached to the bedside table and poured a small amount of water into a cup, placed a straw in it and head it up to Sherlock’s mouth, encouraging him to drink.

“Just small sips, you might feel a little nauseous with all the drugs running through you.”

Sherlock took a quick drag on the straw and found the water to help cut through his drowsiness-feeling a bit more alert.

“What-“ he croaked, finding his throat raw and sore.

“Sh, don’t try to talk yet. You’ve been out for three days. Gonna be a little drowsy.”

Sherlock pulled down his sheet, attempting to get a look at what felt like layers upon layers of bandages on his abdomen.

“I was right. Bullet went straight up, nicked your lung. Didn’t hit anything else along the way. Surgery was very simple-I observed. Textbook. You lost a lot of blood though. Mycroft insisted on donating. Passed out as soon as he saw the needle. But no worries, you’re AB Positive-can take from anyone.”

John pulled his sleeve up to reveal a bandage around the crook of his arm. “Mycroft decided he would be better suited to deal with the paper trail revolving around your much-anticipated return to detective work. Turns out I didn’t turn the camera off. The entire country saw the whole thing. You’re a hero again.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath despite the nagging pinch in his chest, which he supposed was a drainage tube from surgery. When he opened his eyes he turned his head achingly to face Molly on the sofa, hoping John understood his question without his needing to speak.

“She’s fine. Just bumps and bruises. She’s been here for the last three days. Refuses to leave. Mrs. Hudson brought her some clean clothes but she refuses to leave your side. I think you have a lot of explaining to do on that front, you know.”

Sherlock smiled slightly, turning back to face John. He swallowed before asking his next question, leaving it to one word. “Moriarty?” he croaked, weakly.

“He’s dead, Sherlock. Really dead. I saw in on his autopsy. Wanted to be positive. Even he can’t fake that. And yes, I checked for rubber balls beneath his arms.”

Sherlock looked down guiltily.  “John, I’m sor-“

“Don’t. I know why you did it. I understand.”

They continued to look at each other until both averted their gaze, slightly embarrassed. Suddenly there was movement coming from the sofa-Molly was stirring.

“Look, are you hungry? Why don’t I find a nurse and see if we can get some food into you?” he left before waiting for an answer. Sherlock knew he was giving he and Molly a private moment, but Sherlock feigned ignorance, appreciative of the gesture.

“Hey,” Sherlock said loudly as he could. Molly turned quickly at the sound of his voice. Her face immediately lit up at the sight of him awake, though it couldn’t hide the obvious state of appearance-exhausted.

“Hey, you! How do you feel? Do you need more pain meds?” She was at Sherlock’s side now, tentatively grasping his hand. Sherlock gave it a faint squeeze in an attempt to reassure her.

“I think I’m ok-considering. What exactly happened?”

“Well, Scotland Yard was flooded with phone calls after the broadcast hit, so the police arrived shortly after you were-you know. Lestrade was the first on the scene. He called for backup and paramedics, took them about five minutes to get you to Bart’s.”

Sherlock nodded. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yeah. My jaw wasn’t fractured, just bruised.” She stared at him, tears threatening to roll down her cheeks any minute.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” said Sherlock.

The floodgates opened. Tears began to stream down Molly’s cheeks in earnest. “I thought you were dead! All I could think about was that I just got you and now I lost you and Jim was dead right next to me and it was all his fault and I was so scared Sherlock! I was so scared!”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide at Molly’s sudden onslaught of emotion as he ignored the pinching in his arms to reach up and pull her head to his so he could kiss her forehead. “It’s ok. It’s fine now. I’m fine.”

To his surprise, she yanked away and swatted his hand away.

“It is not fine! You almost died! Don’t you ever do that to me again!”

Sherlock stared at her, unsure what to say. To his own surprise, a smile began to creep onto his face.

“Sherlock, it’s not funny! It’s-“ Molly hiccupped through her tears, a smile trying to force its way through onto her face as well.

Sherlock began to laugh at her, wincing slightly at the pain it caused in his chest. “You’re a nutter.”

Molly gave up and began to laugh as well. “I know.” She playfully hit him again in the shoulder, leaning over subtly to hit the round button beside him, issuing a dose of pain medication.

“Hey, now. Be gentle. I’ve been shot, woman.” Sherlock grinned at her, a flood of drowsy relief hitting his veins through the IV.

Molly smiled wickedly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be gentle with you again, Mr. Holmes.” She leaned down and kissed him deeply right before he sank into a blissful, drug-induced sleep.

“Someone is really going to have to explain to me what the hell happened while he was gone,” said John’s voice from the doorway. He looked utterly bewildered. Molly took one of the sandwiches out of his hands and sat herself on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, chuckling to herself.


	18. Bow Ties Are Cool

“Please, Molly, it looks fine,” Sherlock struggled against her like a toddler. “Honestly, who would ever choose to wear a bow tie?”

“Bow ties are cool,” said John from behind him, Sherlock rolling his eyes.

“Someone who is being honored by Scotland Yard for taking down one of the world’s most dangerous criminals, that’s who,” Molly beamed at him, finishing straightening his tie and stepping back to look at him. “You look great. Except for the black eye of course,” she said, glaring at John.

“He deserved it and you know it,” said John, looking down to straighten his own tie.  “How do I look?”

“You’re both very handsome. I’m going to go get my seat! Good luck!”

XXX

“What can I say about Sherlock Holmes?” began Anderson, his brow furrowed angrily at the thought of saying anything other than ‘he’s a twat.’ Lestrade gave him a threatening look before he continued.

“When I heard that Sherlock Holmes was going to be honored, I jumped at the opportunity to introduce him.”

“This is golden,” said John from the wings, watching Sherlock double over with laughter, trying to remain silent. Anderson continued from the script until it was time for Sherlock and John to come onstage and accept the plaque denoting them both heroes.

“Thank you so much, Donovan, it means a lot,” Sherlock smiled as she handed him the plaque, frowning.

“Go to hell, Freak,” she said under her breath. Sherlock smiled as he approached the microphone.

“This is truly an honor I don’t deserve. But since I’m up here, I’ll use the time to do something I don’t usually do. I would like to thank Greg Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard for helping to take Moriarty off the streets for good. I would like to thank my brother, Mycroft, for his assistance, even if he is a complete pansy in the medical department.”

John cleared his throat loudly, indicating that Sherlock should continue.

“Right, sorry. I would like to thank my best friend, Doctor John Watson, for never losing faith in me. I was so alone, and I owe him so much,”

John smiled and looked to the ground, uncomfortable with all the stares and “awwws” he was receiving from the audience.

“And finally, I would like to thank Doctor Molly Hooper. Without her, none of this would have been possible. Molly, over the past few days I have grown closer to you than I ever thought I could, and I can’t thank you enough. You do count. More than you could ever know.”

XXX

The evening progressed with Sherlock and John meeting many distinguished guests, recounting their adventures thousands of times over, and taking hundreds of photographs with the press. It was several hours in before Sherlock found himself with a moment alone, straying into the hallway to get some air.

“That’s quite some attention you’re getting, Dear Brother,” said Mycroft’s voice from behind him.

Sherlock reached up to undo his bowtie, reveling in the freedom to breath normally again. “This is really your kind of scene more than mine. Kissing up was never really my style.”

“You bought your A-level chemistry professor a diamond bracelet.”

“Only because she was having an affair with the calculus professor, who hated me.” Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “All of this is due to a mistake on my part. If it hadn’t been for me, none of it would have ever happened.”

Sherlock was about to respond with a witty quip, but recognized Mycroft’s attempt at sincerity.

“I realize also that it is probably due to my actions that we haven’t been as close as we used to be. I hope you can forgive me. I’m sorry.”

Mycroft reached out his hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, seeming to make a decision. He reached out to take Mycroft’s hand, but instead of shaking it used it to pull him in for a bone-crunching hug. After the initial shock wore off, Mycroft relaxed and returned the first hug he had received from his brother in over twenty years.

XXX

Molly let out a huge yawn as she and Sherlock waited on John to head back to Baker Street. She had just introduced him to her friend Mary from the mortuary, and they seemed to be getting on well.

“They’re going out for dinner and a movie tomorrow,” Sherlock said, his hand absent-mindedly twisting through Molly’s hair as she sat in front of him, leaning backwards against his chest.

“How do you know that?” she asked, her own hands tracing circles on Sherlock’s knees.

“Please, look at how he’s standing. How can you not see that?”

Molly turned her face so she was looking at him upside down. “Shut up.”

Sherlock grinned and bent down to give her a quick kiss before John walked up to them, practically skipping.

“We’re going to dinner and the cinema tomorrow,” he said, grinning ear to ear.

Sherlock looked down at Molly with a sly smirk before she playfully pushed him away. “That’s fabulous, John. I think you two will really get on.”

“Shall we head out then?” asked Sherlock, lifting Molly up to a standing position and handing over her shoes she had removed hours previously.

“Yeah, if you two just wouldn’t mind giving me a lift home?” she said, putting her uncomfortable heels back on her sore feet.

“Oh, well, yes…I-“ Sherlock fumbled.

“Or, I mean, I could get my own cab,” said Molly, visibly hurt by his response.

“No. I just thought-I thought you would be coming back with me to Baker Street. I could clean out some space for your enormous collection of ridiculous jumpers. I mean, if you wanted.”

Molly stood to face him. “Sherlock, are you asking me to move in with you?”

Sherlock turned to John, “Am I?”

“Yes,” John replied, nodding.

Sherlock turned back to Molly. “Yes. I am.”

“Toby’s really not going to like this,” she said smiling. With that, she took Sherlock’s hand and the three of them walked out together.


	19. Epilogue

_Three years later_

Sherlock put the finishing flourish on the last chorus of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” as Mrs. Hudson and Molly applauded.

“Oh, I just love that one, Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson, patting him on the cheek. There was a knock on the door. Mycroft rose to open it, welcoming John and Mary inside.

“Hello, everyone! Terrible weather out there!” John laughed, having only walked up the stairs from 221C, the basement flat he and Mary had begun renting after their marriage last month.

“Yes, John-congratulations on your marriage. I’m so sorry I was unable to attend. I trust you received my gift?” Mycroft shook John’s hand, giving him a genuine smile.

“Yes, Mycroft, it was very generous. We look forward to our vacation as soon as the holidays are over. Hello, everybody!” he nodded toward Lestrade, clapped Sherlock on the back and gave Mrs. Hudson and Molly a hug each.

“So, Sherlock, should we be expecting wedding bells anytime in your future?” Lestrade asked jokingly, cradling his third glass of wine and smiling.

“Marriage is an unnecessary institution created on the obsolete grounds of dowry and-“

“What he’s trying to say is ‘we don’t need to be married to know how special our relationship is,” said Molly, wrapping her arm around Sherlock’s waist and hugging him.

“No, I’m saying that marriage is idiotic-“

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Molly smiled up at him, stopping him mid-sentence.

John and Mary laughed at Molly’s endearing response, and began unloading gifts.

“Shall we do gifts, then?” asked John, pulling a brightly colored package out of a bag and passing it toward Mrs. Hudson.

“Scarf,” said Sherlock, receiving an immediate warning look from Molly. “Sorry.”

The entire room laughed this time.

XXX

After a deluge of colored paper, Christmas crackers, and plenty of laughter, all the gifts seemed to be opened. Mary was just finishing a rather amusing story of one of her and John’s more tragic attempts at a first double date with Sherlock and Molly when Molly stood up and walked across the room.

“There’s actually one more gift for you, Sherlock,” she said, handing him a small package.

“Don’t you dare guess what it is,” said John, warningly.

“I don’t have x-ray vision, John, you’re just predictable.”

The box was wrapped neatly in bright red paper, with Molly’s handwriting across the top: “My Dearest Sherlock XXX.”

Sherlock smiled at the reference to their very first Christmas together and pulled the lid off the box.

He immediately put the lid back on the box, sat it down, and jumped up as if something had bitten him-staring at the box with widened eyes. The room went silent.

“Sherlock, what-“ John began, but Molly took another step forward, tentatively.

“Surprise,” she smiled, though it was cautious.

“What’s in the box, Sherlock?” asked Lestrade, as everyone else in the room shifted uncomfortably.

Sherlock picked up the box and removed the lid again, slowly lifting out a deerstalker hat. _A very tiny deerstalker hat._

It took the room about ten seconds to make the connection, then silently glare at Sherlock, unsure of how to react.

Sherlock stared at the hat, eyes still wide, mouth open. Finally, his open-mouthed shock stretched into an enormous grin as he reached out and hugged Molly tightly.

There was an audible sigh from the room as everybody began celebrating at once. Mrs. Hudson and Mary ran to Molly and began hugging her and rubbing her belly, asking her when she was due, while Lestrade and John went to Sherlock and clapped him hard on the back.

“Papa Sherlock,” said Mycroft with a grin, “Mummy’s not going to believe this one.”

“Uncle Mycroft,” Sherlock squeaked, “I’m going to be a father!” The brothers hugged as Sherlock continued to smile and run his fingers through his hair.

“I’m due in July. We should be able to tell in about four weeks if it’s a girl or a boy,” said Molly instinctively dropping her hands to her still mostly-flat tummy-though Sherlock convinced himself he saw the beginnings of a small bulge there.

“You know what the greatest thing about this is, right?” John asked the room. Everybody turned and stared at him.

“Molly, you were able to keep the fact that you were pregnant a secret from the world’s finest consulting detective.”

Everyone laughed as Sherlock gave Molly another tight hug, followed by a gentle kiss. He let his hand fall to her belly, smiling at the thought of the future. “I love you,” he said, looking into her eyes.

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap! Hope you enjoyed it, as I wrote it several months before Series 3 aired. At the time, it was everything I wanted to happen, but of course I LOVED the new episodes! Comments and Kudos super-appreciated and cyber-smiles to all you readers! Thanks!


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